


Coming Forth To Carry Me Home

by tardisy



Series: Endings [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, M/M, Reunion, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:58:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisy/pseuds/tardisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are many endings. This is one.</i>
</p><p>When Dean regains consciousness, he is on his back, in the middle of a field.</p><p>Tawny tufts of foxtail barley sway above his head, and if he tips his chin, slowly, just enough, lavender blooms of aster and clover tickle at his nose. His neck aches, but he doesn’t want to look away, back towards the unblemished blue of the sky, because he is on the crest of a hill, and before him, the rolling plains extend as a golden sea toward the hazy curve of the horizon, lazily ebbing and flowing with the warm summer breeze.</p><p>He knows this place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Forth To Carry Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/79256101802/coming-forth-to-carry-me-home-dean-castiel-deancas)!

 

When Dean regains consciousness, he is on his back, in the middle of a field.

Tawny tufts of foxtail barley sway above his head, and if he tips his chin, slowly, just enough, lavender blooms of aster and clover tickle at his nose. His neck aches, but he doesn’t want to look away, back towards the unblemished blue of the sky, because he is on the crest of a hill, and before him, the rolling plains extend as a golden sea toward the hazy curve of the horizon, lazily ebbing and flowing with the warm summer breeze.

He knows this place.

He closes his eyes, briefly, but does not lose the scene before him. Rather, it is etched behind his eyelids, grainy with remembrance, but with added players: he and Sam, young, the heady smell of sweat and the Impala’s leather heavy on the air, his movements syrupy smooth with the heat as he points out the window, _See, Sammy, look, this is where you were born! This is where we’re from! This is our_

Home.

A wet cough rips painfully from his chest, and he groans, thinks, _How the hell did I end up in Kansas?_ , but can’t recall through the thick mire of his reeling mind. There is something smearing wet on his cheek, his chin; when he reaches up to swipe at it, though, he realizes he cannot move. His body is heavy and light at the same time, yet all he feels throughout is a dull ache, and isolated sparks of stinging pain burrowing out from the core of him. Dean slowly rubs his cheek against the frayed fabric at his shoulder, regrets it instantly when the movement blazes through him like wildfire. He swallows with difficulty, and when the stars clear from his vision, he sees that, where he wiped his face, his shirt is stained red, tacky.

Just like, he notices now, the broken stems and crushed blossoms that make his feral bed, his shadow crimson and sodden.

His breath comes short, labored, ribcage a vice as the pressure in his chest builds when his lungs can’t push air past the knot of panic lodged in his throat.

Dean remembers.

He was working.

The details dart above him like the dandelion seeds in the currents, too quick to grasp. Instinct prevails, even while he struggles with fear, and his hunter’s mind grapples into the driver’s seat, _what_ do _we know?_ Very little, is the answer, but Dean catalogues what he can:

  *          He and Sam were working a case.
  *          They split up at some point.
  *          Dean was alone, and got ambushed.
  *          Sam was not with him.
  *          They were not in Kansas.



Focusing on these things helps him to forget his mounting alarm, and he works through them like the geometry proofs he pretended he didn’t excel at in school.

They were working a case. They split up. They were not together.

They were not together when Dean got ambushed.

They were not together, so Sam was safe.

 _Sam_ is _safe._

Dean thinks he hears the sentiment echoed on the wind, but at the moment, his synapses are firing along on their farewell tour, and he has far more pressing issues on which to concentrate.

And he breathes, because Sam is safe, even as the sun begins to set on the plains.

Sam is safe, and that negates the importance of the final part of the equation, where he doesn’t know how he ended up in the middle of a Kansas prairie.

He was working.

Sam is safe.

Dean is dying.

In the distance, Dean can hear the familiar purr of an engine, as known to him as the beat of his own heart, even now as it skips like a inept drummer, unable to keep time, but nowhere is the endless sea of gold sliced by the sharp lines of pavement.

It fades until all he can hear is the soft _swish_ of the grass as it sways, a gentle counterpoint to the rough, heavy pants that burst from his chest. Dean’s heart kicks violently against his breastbone.

So this is it.

The panicked struggle collapses beneath the weight of his acceptance and, although the pain does not fade, his breaths come more easily as his muscles relax into grateful surrender.

Dean understands what is happening. He has done this before, and even though, this time, he is on a one-way street – because that is what is _supposed_ to happen, _will_ happen, this time – he has some idea of what is waiting for him. There are no true unknowns in this scenario.

He is still afraid.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut at the sudden onslaught of emotion, tears welling up and spilling down his cheeks in rosy rivulets. The salt burns his parched lips. Perhaps it’s because he knows this is truly his end. Perhaps it’s because he knows where he’s going to end up.

Perhaps it’s because, at the end of everything, he is alone.

A pathetic whimper crawls out of his throat, then another, but he doesn’t care. No one is around to hear it.

He tips his head back to look away from the expanse of land and back toward the sky, smeared with the oranges and corals of sunset. The effect is magnified as Dean’s eyes blur with wetness. He weeps, and desperately thinks, not for the first time, but perhaps for the last, _I wish Cas was here._

But that would be impossible, because Castiel has been gone for years, since they shut it all down, Heaven and Hell both, leaving humanity free to run its own course outside of the whims of creatures more powerful but no more the wiser. Since that moment when Heaven’s gates needed to be closed, and Plans A to Z failed, and Cas got that sharp, determined glint in his eye, and Dean knew , with a horrifying clarity, it was for the last time. That, in a blinding flash of light, everything they had done just prior to that moment was The Last Time. The last time he heard Cas laugh, the last time his eyes shuttered in confusion, and the triumph that erased it when he understood. The last time Dean touched him, and the last time they –

Dean chokes for air as sorrow floods his lungs and threatens to drown him.

He doesn’t know if Castiel is alive, or if he’s been locked away in Heaven (he’s prayed regardless, and either way, he thinks the angel would be proud that he finally learned the meaning of _faith_ ). He supposes it doesn’t matter, since where he’s going, he would have never seen Cas again anyway.

It is a sobering thought that helps to calm him, however morbid. He will never see Castiel’s pure, white light engulfed by the oily shadows of Hell; he will never hear Sam scream as he is burned to ashes again and again.

Dean takes a great amount of comfort in these things. Even though it is taxing, his mouth quirks in a parody of a smile.

Blinking the wet sheen from his eyes, he focuses on the beauty of the watercolor sky; on the breeze, still warm despite the creeping dusk; on the crisp smell and the pleasant snap of dry vegetation; on the gentle, soothing chill of the ground beneath him.

Blissful numbness begins to trickle from the tips of his toes and his fingers, inward, as he relaxes. His mind feels clearer, sharper, as his body shuts down, more and more precious resources re-routed to essential function, so he is able to trip easily across the jagged expanse of his life.

He thinks about Bobby, of the pride in his eyes even as he called Dean an _idjit_ , of the spice of his homemade chilli after a difficult hunt. He thinks about Charlie, her kindness and loyalty and her easy friendship. He thinks about Kevin, and his strength; Jo and Ellen, and theirs. He thinks of Benny. He thinks of all of the people who have touched his life. He thinks about leather jackets and 8-tracks, and warm eyes and _Hey Jude,_ and dusty chrome beneath his fingertips, warm from the sun _._

And, of course, he thinks about Sam. Sam, and his goofy laugh and stupid hair. Sam singing loudly, horribly, in the passenger seat, and the way it was amplified because Dean couldn’t roll the windows down as he was laughing too hard. Sam, all heated concern but steady hands as he stitched Dean up and put him back together.

He thinks about the day Mom and Dad brought him home from the hospital. He thinks about draping over the trunk of the Impala, six-pack between them, constellations above, and the road before them.

And he thinks about blue eyes, always ethereal but never unknowable; not to him. The way that blinding, crooked smile bloomed across Cas’ face when he discovered cat videos on YouTube. Castiel’s tender touch when he was injured, or when he wasn’t, and the rush of heat that followed, and couldn’t entirely be accounted for by the smolder of his grace. He thinks of the splintering screech and snap of barn doors, of blinding white light, and the warmth of human hands. He thinks of a graveled rasp, and how it slid like pebbles over the range of his name.

 _Deeeean_.

Dean sniffles wetly as he hears the voice in his mind, faint, distant, and regrets it immediately as something warm trickles down the back of his throat. He tries to spit, succeeds only in weakly spluttering flecks of red on his lips and chin. Everything is slowing now, moving like treacle even as the wind gusts with more purpose, and his vision starts to dim.

Sam’s smile. Cas’ eyes. Sam’s voice when he told Dean he was proud to be his brother. Cas’, when he said that he needed Dean, just like Dean needed him. He clings tight to the memories, tucks them close, deep within himself, where they will not be singed by hellfire.

 _Deeeeean_.

His failing senses are playing tricks on him. It sounds real enough, now, though, that Dean would go to it, if he could. If he could move. Breathe. Minor things.

The field of Dean’s vision suddenly blacks out in one fell swoop, with one sharp gust rolling across the plains of his face that makes the drying tracks of tears snap with shocking cold that is as good as a slap.

His eyes are wide open, staring at the all-encompassing darkness, waiting, until he notices that it is not a solid thing. There is a sheen to it, like the oil slicks that collected beneath his baby when he bottomed out in a parking lot exit, of all things. The longer he looks at it he can see there are dips and whorls, fringed edges like the bluestem growing tall around him.

The black shadow flexes with the wind before it draws back like a curtain, revealing the dimming sky once again.

 _Wha –_ ?

“Hello, Dean.”

Suddenly, the wetness in his eyes has nothing to do with the sudden change in brightness. Dean’s throat works uselessly, gasping grunts in place of the syllable he truly wants, the one thrumming through his broken body _._ He is shaking.

There is warmth on his cheeks, guiding his head to the side so he can see, grants him the range of motion he so desperately needs.

Castiel is smiling, soft and sad, and there is a glow flaring behind his blown pupils, like the gentle pulse of a lighthouse beacon in the roiling ocean of his eyes. Behind him, there is a shadow that blots out the sun as it inches past the horizon.

 _Wings_.

Cas’ thumbs are scrubbing along the ridge of his cheekbones, catching on the thin skin beneath his eyes. He can barely feel it. His mouth works, and he has just enough strength to feel ashamed for putting so much effort into so small an action, and failing.

His vision blacks out again, but this time it is because the angel is leaning forward, pressing his lips to Dean’s forehead as he cradles his head, and suddenly, cold flame rushes through him, and the iron grip on his chest eases, and he can breathe. Dean inhales greedily; the smell of ozone weaves seamlessly with the crisp of the prairie.

“ _Cas_ ,” he whispers, voice wrecked with damage and elation.

“ _Dean_.” Castiel’s eyes are welling with tears, but Dean almost overlooks it when he realizes with joy that time had not dulled his memory of the eternal blue of his eyes, or the strong lines of his profile, or the wild nest of his hair. Of the way he says his name.

“Cas,” he rasps again, because he can’t remember if he said it already. “How’re. You. Here?” It is easier to tackle the sentence in pieces.

“Oh, Dean.” Castiel’s wings unfurl, spilling out on either side of his body. The setting sun frames his head like a halo, and the tip of one charcoal wing drapes across Dean’s stomach, covers his arm. His heart thumps dangerously, furious that he cannot feel it, but the feeling dissipates when he realizes Cas is still speaking. It is frustrating to only be able to concentrate on one thing at a time. “Obstinate, stubborn Dean Winchester.” Castiel shakes his head, the set of his eyes soft. “I have missed you.”

Despite everything, Dean can’t help the “Me, too,” that slips from his lips on an exhale. His faith, his prayers, it seems, were not wasted, or in vain.

Cas is holding his body now, in his lap; Dean doesn’t remember being moved.

“Do you know what is happening, Dean?” The thread of Cas’ voice is steady and steadfast in the maelstrom about him – or perhaps it is only the perpetual waves of the prairie in the wind – and he clings to it, grounds himself. As he always has.

“Hurt.” Nevermind sentences; syllables are easier, and it’s not like he and Castiel had ever had much use for words.

Castiel nods, somber. “Yes. Badly, Dean.” He hesitates, his voice even and calm when he continues. “You are dying.”

Dean blinks in acknowledgment; he knows this already, and he doesn’t have time enough to waste on rehashing. _Yeah, but are you here to_

“Save. Me?”

Cas’ mouth dips into a frown, but his eyes are soft with remorse and affection. “No.” Dean groans as the angel shifts beneath him. “I am here to reap you.”

The confusion must show on Dean’s face, and he is grateful, for it means he doesn’t have to waste the energy to speak.

“Granted, exceptions had to be made, and I _am_ new to this, so… you will have to tell me how I performed.” He smoothes a hand against the grain of Dean’s hair, fond as he confesses fiercely, “How could I trust anyone else to show you the way?”

“T’Hell?” Dean gasps, betrayal burning bitterly in his throat.

Castiel starts, as though he had brushed against a live wire, and his wings tense and shudder. “How can you think that?” he growls, thunder resonating in the valley below, lightning flaring bright in his eyes. He clenches his jaw, reigning in his power as it threatens to unleash in a tempest across the plains; even so, Dean wants nothing more, would breathe his last right now, if he could reach out and touch him. He wonders if Cas can hear his thoughts, because he suddenly calms, whispers harshly. “I would _never_ –“ the angel breathes. “I’m taking you home, Dean. To Heaven.”

When Dean’s mouth parts in disbelief, Castiel shakes his head sadly. “Oh, Dean. Of course this would be your final reward. _Of course_ it would.” He tips Dean’s head into the bend of his elbow, so that he cannot escape his unwavering gaze. “Your place is with your loved ones. Darkness will never touch you again.” The ground rumbles when he says, “I swear this to you.”

Dean trembles, although he does not think he is cold. The blissful balm of Cas’ grace is fading, and it scares Dean that even that does not seem to be enough to temper the effects of the damage done to him.

The slowing beat of his heart is distracting.

“Dean,” Castiel says, urgent. “I know it is difficult. And I’m – ” his breath catches, and Dean clutches at the dregs of his dimming strength, because Cas sounds like _he_ is hurting, but eases when he realizes Cas is hurting because of _him_. “I’m so sorry you’re in so much pain. But you need to concentrate.” Castiel rests a heavy hand against the hard line of his breastbone. “You need to let go.”

 _Huh?_ he tries, but only succeeds in weak wheeze.

Castiel understands. Years and worlds apart, and nothing has changed.

“You’re stuck Dean, you’re –“ he stops, looks away briefly as he shakes his head, and bites at his lip. “You’re trapped in the veil. You’re here, but you’re there. You’re still holding on.” He huffs in strained amusement, “Of course, you would have to make this more difficult for yourself.”

Castiel leans closer, and when he speaks Dean’s eyelashes sway in the current of his desperate pleas.

“Please stop being so stubborn, and let go.” Drops of damp cling to the sooty fringe of Cas’ eyelashes, his eyes despairing and wild, when he straightens. “I cannot help you until you do. _Please._ ”

He isn’t holding on; is he?

Dean considers this, and his broken body, and the fiery spikes of pain that sear through the numbness, and the glacial, staccato tempo of his heart. He is so tired, but try as he might, the merciful darkness does not envelop him; only the trembling canopy of Castiel’s sable pinions.

_Me and Sam were working._

_We split up._

_I got ambushed._

_I’m dying._

_Sam is…_

“Sam,” he groans wretchedly, as it bursts from the depths of him. “C’s, Smmm…”

“Sam is safe, Dean.” Castiel touches his forehead to Dean’s, breathes deliberately, encouraging him to follow as Dean toes at the edge of hyperventilation. “I tried to tell you before.”

 _On the wind_ , Dean recalls, _yes._ And, abstractly, _Are you the wind, too, Cas? Were you there all the time?_

Dean’s eyes cross with their proximity to one another, or perhaps with exhaustion, but he can see that Castiel’s gaze is firm and honest, no lies lurking beneath the white light in his pupils.

“Sam is _safe_ ,” Cas reiterates. “He will be just fine.” His voice his rough with tears, the same ones that fall upon Dean’s parched lips like rain, but beneath that, it is seeps with pride, and joy, and love. “Sam is safe, and your job on Earth is done. You have done so,” he pauses when his voice cracks. “So well. _Dean_. It is your turn to rest now, my friend.”

The air in Dean’s lungs rattles high in his chest, and he gasps in panic as Cas leans back, just enough to see him clearly. The angel, eyes shining, runs a hand against Dean’s cheek, lulling him into quiet. Dean’s eyes slide to his wings, entranced by the way they flex and quiver with the wind, oil slicks against the canvas of a Kansas dusk.

“Don’t be afraid.”

His breath escapes in a long hiss.

“I’ll watch over you.”

His chest is too heavy , his lungs too spent. He doesn’t fight it.

“You’re not alone.”

Darkness is creeping in on the edges of his vision, but Dean thinks it may just be the shadows of Cas’ wings catching in his periphery.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Castiel’s voice fades into a comforting hum, backed by the familiar, rustling chorus of tallgrass prairie.

The breeze is warm, but his friend is warmer still, a soothing heat he can feel deep in his bones, even though everything is numb.

_Sam is safe._

_Cas is waiting._

Everyone _is waiting_.

Dean smiles, closes his eyes.

He lets go.

 

When Dean regains consciousness, he is standing in the middle of a field.

Tawny tufts of foxtail barley sway against his knuckles, catch in the fine hairs of his forearms, and if he tips his chin, just enough, the lavender blooms of aster and clover lick at his feet as looks down the ridge of his nose. Nothing hurts, and he breathes deeply, undulates like the bluestem to stretch his back and shoulders, and looks up, toward the setting sun. He finds that he is on the crest of a hill, and before him, the rolling plains extend as a golden sea toward the hazy curve of the horizon, lazily ebbing and flowing with the warm summer breeze.

He knows this place.

“Are you ready, Dean?”

He closes his eyes, briefly, as emotion makes his breath catch, opens them quickly because he does not want to lose the scene before him. Castiel stands at his side, an oasis among the gilded waves, and Dean can’t tell if the heat he feels is emanating from the sun or his friend. Dean reaches out to cradle a hand against the bolt of Castiel’s jaw. The approaching shadows have nothing to do with Cas’ wings, which have apparently been lost to his sight in the transition from the veil.

He is still the most wonderful creature Dean has ever had the privilege to know.

Dean slips an arm around Cas’ shoulders, another around his waist, and pulls him close. Castiel laughs into the hollow of his collarbone; Dean smiles against his neck, presses closer.

In all of the possible outcomes, this is everything he had hoped for, and so nothing he believed he could ever have. Ever deserve. Yet…

Dean pulls away at Castiel’s gentle insistence, a tickling roll of knuckles against the unbroken ridge of his ribcage. There is a wide grin stretched across Cas’ face, his unanswered question written in the slant of his eyes, the quirk of an eyebrow. Dean huffs, contentment slinking down his spine, happiness filling his chest like the muggy air of a Midwestern summer night.

“Yeah,” he breathes, in answer.

Together, they walk toward the fading light.

He is home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/79256101802/coming-forth-to-carry-me-home-dean-castiel-deancas)!


End file.
